“I simply want help in finding something. Your man can do that.”
“Pal, Junior can’t find his own pants in the morning even if he’s slept in them. He’s still got it on film, but half the time he doesn’t know what year it is. And, frankly, he’s better off that way. He still thinks he’s in Of Mice and Men.”
“If you remade that, would you call it Of Mice and Bloody Men?”
Sam laughed. “Of Naked Mice and Bloody Men.”
“Do we have a deal?”
“I’ll talk to Junior.”
“Thank you.”
* * * *
After dark, the two camps were pitched. Charlie’s Family were around the ranch-house, clustering on the porch for a meal prepared and served by the girls, which was not received enthusiastically. Constant formulated elaborate sentences of polite and constructive culinary criticism which made head chef Lynette Alice, a.k.a. Squeaky, glare as if she wanted to drown him in soup.
Leech had another future moment, seeing between the seconds. Drowned bodies hung, arms out like B-movie monsters, faces pale and shrivelled. Underwater zombies dragged weighted boots across the ocean floor, clothes flapping like torn flags. Finned priests called the faithful to prayer from the steps of sunken temples to Dagon and Cthulhu and the Fisherman Jesus.
Unnoticed, he spat out a stream of seawater which sank into the sand.
The Family scavenged their food, mostly by random shoplifting in markets, and were banned from all the places within an easy reach. Now they made do with whatever canned goods they had left over and, in some cases, food parcels picked up from the Chatsworth post office sent by suburban parents they despised but tapped all the time. Mom and Dad were a resource, Charlie said, like a seam of mineral in a rock, to be mined until it played out.
The situation was exacerbated by cooking smells wafting up from the film camp, down by the bunkhouse. The movie folk had a catering budget. Junior presided over a cauldron full of chili, his secret family recipe doled out to the cast and crew on all his movies. Leech gathered that some of Charlie’s girls had exchanged blowjobs for bowls of that chili, which they then dutifully turned over to their lord and master in the hope that he’d let them lick out the crockery afterwards.
Everything was a matter of striking a deal. Service for payment.
Not hungry, he sat between the camps, considering the situation. He knew what Janice Marsh wanted, what Charlie wanted, what A1 wanted, and what Sam wanted. He saw arrangements that might satisfy them all.
But he had his own interests to consider.
The more concrete the coming flood was in his mind, the less congenial an apocalypse it seemed. It was unsubtle, an upheaval that epitomised the saw about throwing out the baby with the bathwater. He envisioned more intriguing pathways through the future. He had already made an investment in this world, in the ways that it worked and played, and he was reluctant to abandon his own long-range plans to hop aboard a Technicolor spectacular starring a cast of thousands, scripted by Lovecraft, directed by DeMille, and produced by Mad Eyes Charlie and the Freakin’ Family Band.
His favoured apocalypse was a tide of McLitter, a thousand channels of television noise, a complete scrambling of politics and entertainment, proud-to-be-a-breadhead buttons, bright packaging around tasteless and nutrition-free product, audiovisual media devoid of anything approaching meaning, bellies swelling and IQs atrophying. In his preferred world, as in the songs, people bowed and prayed to the neon god they made, worked for Matthew and Son, were dedicated followers of fashion, and did what Simon said.
He was in a tricky position. It was a limitation on his business that he could rarely set his own goals. In one way, he was like Sam’s vampire: He couldn’t go anywhere without an invitation. Somehow, he must further his own cause, while living up to the letter of his agreements.
Fair enough.
On his porch, Charlie unslung a guitar and began to sing, pouring revelations over a twelve-bar blues. Adoring faces looked up at him, red-fringed by the firelight.
From the movie camp came an answering wail.
Not coyotes, but stuntmen—led by the raucous Riff, whose singing had been dubbed in West Side Story—howling at the moon, whistling over emptied Jack Daniel’s bottles, clanging tin plates together.
Charlie’s girls joined in his chorus.
The film folk fired off blank rounds, and sang songs from the Westerns they’d been in. “Get Along Home, Cindy, Cindy.” “Gunfight at O.K. Corrall.” “The Code of the West.”
Charlie dropped his acoustic, and plugged in an electric. The chords sounded the same, but the ampage somehow got into his reedy voice, which came across louder.
He sang sea shanties.
That put the film folk off for a while.
Charlie sang about mermaids and sunken treasures and the rising, rising waters.
He wasn’t worse than many acts Leech had signed to his record label. If it weren’t for this apocalypse jazz, he might have tried to make a deal with Charlie for his music. He’d kept back the fact that he had pull in the industry. Apart from other considerations, it’d have made Charlie suspicious. The man was naive about many things, but he had a canny showbiz streak. He scorned all the trappings of a doomed civilisation, but bought Daily Variety and Billboard on the sly. You don’t find Phil Spector wandering in the desert eating horse-turds. At least, not so far.
As Charlie sang, Leech looked up at the moon.
* * * *
A shadow fell over him, and he smelled the Wolf Man.
“Is your name George?” asked the big man, eyes eager.
“If you need it to be.”
“I only ask because it seems to me you could be a George. You got that Georgey look, if you know what I mean.”
“Sit down, my friend. We should talk.”
“Gee, uh, okay.”
Junior sat cross-legged, arranging his knees around his comfortable belly. Leech struck a match, put it to a pile of twigs threaded with grass. Flame showed up Junior’s nervous, expectant grin, etched shadows into his open face.
Leech didn’t meet many Innocents. Yet here was one.
As Junior saw Leech’s face in the light, his expression was shadowed. Leech remembered how terrified the actor had been when he first saw him.
“Why do I frighten you?” he asked, genuinely interested.
“Don’t like to say,” said Junior, thumb creeping towards his mouth. “Sounds dumb.”
“I don’t make judgements. That’s not part of my purpose.”
“I think you might be my Dad.”
Leech laughed. He was rarely surprised by people. When it happened, he was always pleased.
“Not like that. Not like you and my Mom... you know. It’s like my Dad’s in you, somewhere.”
“Do I look like him, Creighton?”
Junior accepted Leech’s use of his true name. “I can’t remember what he really looked like. He was the Man of a Thousand Faces. He didn’t have a real face for home use. He’d not have been pleased with the way this turned out, George. He didn’t want this for me. He’d have been real mad. And when he was mad, then he showed his vampire face...”
Junior bared his teeth, trying to do his father in London After Midnight.
“It’s never too late to change.”
Junior shook his head, clearing it. “Gosh, that’s a nice thought, George. Sam says you want me to do you a favour. Sam’s a good guy. He looks out for me. Always has a spot for me in his pictures. He says no one else can do justice to the role of Groton the Mad Zombie. If you’re okay with Sam, you’re okay with me. No matter about my Dad. He’s dead a long time and I don’t have to do what he says no more. That’s the truth, George.”
“Yes.”
“So how can I help you?”
* * * *
The Buggy Korps scrambled in the morning for the big mission. Only two vehicles were all-terrain-ready. Two three-person crews would suffice.
Given temporary command
of Unit Number Two, Leech picked Constant as his driver. The German boy helped Junior into his padded seat, complimenting him on his performance as noble Chingachgook in a TV series of The Last of the Mohicans that had made it to East Germany in the 1950s.
This morning, Junior bubbled with enthusiasm, a big kid going to the zoo. He took a look at Chocko, who had recently been sloshed with red paint, and pantomimed cringing shock.
Leech knew the actor’s father sometimes came home from work in clown make-up and terrified his young son.
The fear was still there.
Unit Number Two was scrambled before Charlie was out of his hammock.
They waited. Constant, sticking to a prearranged plan, shut down his face, covering a pettish irritation that others did not adhere to such a policy, especially others who were theoretically in a command position.
The Family Führer eventually rolled into the light, beard sticky as a glazed doughnut, scratching lazily. He grinned like a cornered cat and climbed up onto Unit Number One—actually, Unit Number Four with a hastily-repainted number, since the real Number One was a wreck. As crew, Charlie cut a couple of the girls out of the corral: the thin and pale Squeaky, who always looked like she’d just been slapped, and a younger, prettier, stranger creature called Ouisch. Other girls glowered sullen resentment and envy at the chosen ones. Ouisch tossed her long dark hair smugly and blew a gum-bubble in triumph. There was muttering of discontent.
If he had been Charlie, Leech would have taken the boy who could fix the motors, not the girls who gave the best blowjobs. But it wasn’t his place to give advice.
Charlie was pleased with his mastery over his girls, as if it were difficult to mind-control American children. Leech thought that a weakness. Even as Charlie commanded the loyalty of the chicks, the few men in the Family grumbled. They got away with sniping resentment because their skills or contacts were needed. Of the group at the Ranch, only Constant had deal-making potential.
“Let’s roll, Rat Patrol,” decreed Charlie, waving.
The set-off was complicated by a squabble about protocol. Hitherto, in column outings—and two Units made a column—Charlie had to be in the lead vehicle. However, given that Junior was truffle-pig on this expedition, Unit Number One had to be in the rear, with Number Two out front.
Squeaky explained the rules, at length. Charlie shrugged, grinned, and looked ready to doze.
Leech was distracted by a glint from an upper window. A gush of dirty water came from a pipe. Janice Marsh’s fish-face loomed in shadows, eyes eager. Stranded and flapping in this desert, no wonder she was thirsty.
Constant counterargued that this was a search operation, not a victory parade.
“We have rules or we’re nothing, Kaptain Kraut,” whined Squeaky.
It was easy to hear how she’d got her nickname.
“They should go first, Squeak,” said Ouisch. “In case of mines. Or ambush. Charlie should keep back, safe.”
“If we’re going to change the rules, we should have a meeting.”
Charlie punched Squeaky in the head. “Motion carried,” he said.
Squeaky rubbed her nut, eyes crossed with anger. Charlie patted her, and she looked up at him, forcing adoration.
Constant turned the ignition—a screwdriver messily wired into the raped steering column—and the engine turned over, belching smoke.
Unit Number Two drove down the track, towards the arch.
Squeaky struggled to get Unit Number One moving.
“We would more efficient be if the others behind stayed, I think,” said Constant.
Unit Number One came to life. There were cheers.
“Never mind, li’l buddy,” said Junior. “Nice to have pretty girlies along on the trail.”
“For some, it is nice.”
The two-buggy column passed under the arch.
* * * *
Junior’sfeelings took them up into the mountains. The buggies struggled with the gradient. These were horse-trails.
“This area, it has been searched thoroughly,” said Constant.
“But I got a powerful feeling,” said Junior.
Junior was eager to help. It had taken some convincing to make him believe in his powers of intuition, but now he had a firm faith in them. He realised he’d always had a supernatural ability to find things misplaced, like keys or watches. All his life, people had pointed it out.
Leech was confident. Junior was well cast as the One Who Will Open the Earth. It was in the prophecies.
Unit Number Two became wedged between rocks.
“This is as far as we can go in the buggy,” said Constant.
“That’s a real shame,” said Junior, shaking his head, “‘cause I’ve a rumbling in my guts that says we should be higher. What do you think, George? Should we keep on keeping on?”
Leech looked up. “If you hear the call.”
“You know, George, I think I do. I really do. The call is calling.”
“Then we go on.”
Unit Number One appeared, and died. Steam hissed out of the radiator.
Charlie sent Ouisch over for a sit-rep.
Constant explained they would have to go on foot from now on.
“Some master driver you are, Schultzie,” said the girl, giggling. “Charlie will have you punished for your failure. Severely.”
Constant thought better of answering back.
Junior looked at the view, mopping the sweat off his forehead with a blue denim sleeve. Blotches of smog obscured much of the city spread out toward the grey-blue shine of the Pacific. Up here, the air was thin and at least clean.
“Looks like a train-set, George.”
“The biggest a boy ever had,” said Leech.
Constant had hiking boots and a backpack with rope, implements, and rations. He checked over his gear, professionally.
It had been Ouisch’s job to bottle some water, but she’d got stoned last night and forgot. Junior had a hip-flask, but it wasn’t full of water.
Leech could manage, but the others might suffer.
“If before we went into the high desert a choice had been presented of whether to go with water orwithout, I would have voted for ‘with,’“ said Constant. “But such a matter was not discussed.”
Ouisch stuck her tongue out. She had tattooed a swastika on it with a blue ballpoint pen. It was streaky.
Squeaky found a Coca-Cola bottle rolling around in Unit Number One, an inch of soupy liquid in the bottom. She turned it over to Charlie, who drank it down in a satisfied draught. He made as if to toss the bottle off the mountain like a grenade, but Leech took it from him.
“What’s the deal, Mr. Fish? No one’ll care about littering when Helter Skelter comes down.”
“This can be used. Constant, some string, please.”
Constant sorted through his pack. He came up with twine and a Swiss army knife.
“Cool blade,” said Charlie. “I’d like one like that.”
Squeaky and Ouisch looked death at Constant until he handed the knife over. Charlie opened up all the implements, until the knife looked like a triggered booby-trap. He cleaned under his nails with the bradawl.
Leech snapped his fingers. Charlie gave the knife over.
Leech cut a length of twine and tied one end around the bottle’s wasp-waist. He dangled it like a plum-bob. The bottle circled slowly.
Junior took the bottle, getting the idea instantly.
Leech closed the knife and held it out on his open palm. Constant resentfully made fists by his sides. Charlie took the tool, snickering to himself. He felt its balance for a moment, then pitched it off the mountainside. The Swiss Army Knife made a long arc into the air and plunged, hundreds and hundreds of feet, bounced off a rock, and fell further.
Long seconds later, the tumbling speck disappeared.
“Got to rid ourselves of the trappings, Kraut-Man.”
Constant said nothing.
Junior had scrambled up the rocky incline, following the n
ose of the bottle. “Come on, guys,” he called. “This is it. El Doradio. I can feel it in my bones. Don’t stick around, slowcoaches.”
Charlie was first to follow.
Squeaky, who had chosen to wear flip-flops rather than boots, volunteered to stay behind and guard the Units.
“Don’t be a drag-hag, soldier,” said Charlie. “Bring up the freakin’ rear.”
Leech kept pace.
The Secret Files of the Diogenes Club - [Diogenes Club 02] Page 33
